


Closing Time

by RuleBritannia



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuleBritannia/pseuds/RuleBritannia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/4207.html?thread=5080943#cmt5080943</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing Time

He was right in the middle of a glorious flight across the channel, a few Messerschmitts hot on his tail, when the machineguns from the enemy started to sound suspiciously like his ringtone. Martin opened one bleary eye and saw his old, battered mobile vibrating perilously close to the edge of his nightstand. Swatting his arm uncoordinatedly, he managed to retrieve it without dropping it. He didn’t recognise the number, but while he doubted someone would call at … 11:15 pm to schedule a moving job, he couldn’t be too careful.  
  
“Hello?” he said. Ok, he’d actually said something closer to ‘hnghow’, but it was as good as he could do at the time.  
  
“Hello, Martin! I didn’t wake you, did I?” said the familiar drawl, a tad too cheerfully for his comfort.  
  
“D-Douglas?”  
  
“The one and only.” That did nothing to dissipate his confusion, so he squinted his eyes, as if it would help him hear better, or make sense of anything. “Listen, you know the pub on Darrowby? The Fitton’s End? I need you to pick me up.”  
  
“Hngh.” He struggled to sit up, the words making very little sense even several moments after he heard them. The pub… Darrowby… “What? Why?”  
  
“Eloquent as ever, Sir.”  
  
“Is there something wrong with your car?”  
  
Douglas huffed, seemingly irritated.  
  
“It’s no so much a problem with the car, as it is a problem with its keys.”  
  
“The keys? What’s wrong with the keys?”  
  
“Yes, the keys. They are being held hostage by a barkeep with no sense of adventure.”  
  
“Uhm, Douglas, why does he have your keys?”  
  
“Because apparently he doesn’t feel I should be driving. I, of course, don’t agree with him, but unfortunately I have little choice in the matter.”  
  
And suddenly Martin was very, very awake.  
  
“Douglas, are you drunk?!” He didn’t sound it, but he wouldn’t, would he? This was Douglas.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course not. I do admit to a few more drinks than what’s customary when one has to be behind the wheel, however ”  
  
Martin was already half-dressed and rushing through the door as he slipped his shoes on.  
  
“I’ll be right there.”  
  


////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

It was a dreary night, just the right combination of cold and humid seeping into his bones to make being outside as unpleasant as possible. Of course his van would decide to throw a tantrum, and wouldn’t start. Martin knew he could get it working if he fiddled with it a bit, but a sense of urgency, however unjustified, had settled in his gut and, since the pub really wasn’t that far from his flat, he decided to walk, or rather sprint, there.

 

He tried to convince himself that he was being silly. Douglas had never outright said he was an alcoholic; yes, he had implied it, but the A word had never been uttered. For all he knew, Douglas didn’t drink because it upset his stomach, and the implication had just been made so that it could be used in his favour later. In fact, Douglas had taken advantage of that assumption a number of times. He hadn’t been slurring, hadn’t sounded particularly upset; someone who falls off the wagon after roughly nine years was bound to be upset about something, right? This could be just Douglas being Douglas.

 

Except… Douglas was never straightforward. Martin had never seen him outright upset, not even during those months after his wife had left him. So much so, that he hadn’t known about it, hadn’t even suspected something was wrong. And if he was, indeed, an alcoholic, Martin dreaded to think what else he was missing now, if it had come to Douglas drinking again.

 

He didn’t have much time to ponder on things. The pub really was close enough that ten minutes after hanging up, Martin rounded a corner and saw his First Officer leaning against the door of the now closed establishment. His step faltered and he swallowed hard. Douglas looked… exhausted, older, smaller. Martin’s breath hitched with anxiety. What was he supposed to do?

 

Douglas lifted his gaze and straightened immediately upon seeing him approach, the façade of superiority slipping back into place in an instant. 

 

“Ah, Martin!” He looked around as if looking for something. “I find you conspicuously devoid of a vehicle.”

 

“The van wouldn’t start! I… I would have tried to get it running but…, well…, I thought… Erm…”

 

“Martin, If I’d wanted to walk home, I wouldn’t have called you,” he deadpanned. “What were you planning to do? Give me a piggy ride?”

 

“No! No, but… _Can_ you walk home, though?”

 

The older man rolled his eyes and made to walk away.

 

“Thanks, anyway.” He waved at him lazily. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

 

Douglas started walking, a straight line, not faltering a bit. But Martin was rooted to his spot, watching him. His movements were slower than usual, more controlled, calculated. Martin really, really wanted to turn around and go back home, to his bed and his Spitfire dreams.

 

“Hey, Douglas?” he called, against all better judgement. The FO turned a weary expression his way, but stopped nonetheless. “I assume the barkeep has your keys?”

 

“Yes, he’s been kind enough to offer to keep them safe till morning.”

 

There was a pause. Douglas’ eyes were piercing and expectant and Martin couldn’t quite swallow the words threatening to come out.

 

_No, this is bad. Shut up!_

 

“I have a couch!” he squeaked, wincing as he did.

 

“Good for you!”

 

“No… I mean… I live nearby and… If you want…” _Shut up, turn around and go home, for heaven’s sake! He doesn’t want your help!_   “So you don’t… have to walk all the way back here tomorrow, I mean…” 

 

Douglas closed his eyes with a sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t going to take him up on his offer, Martin was sure. Of course he wasn’t. And that was good, right? He didn’t want him to; even if Douglas was again looking old and haggard. He was not worried, not at all.

 

“If…,” started the older man, after what seemed like ages, in a small voice that made him uneasy. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

 

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

 

It was near midnight when they arrived to the shared house, after a walk spent in oppressive, uncomfortable silence, with Douglas making a visible effort not to appear like he was making an effort to walk naturally, and Martin trying his best to ignore it. He made sure to climb the stairs behind Douglas, just in case.

 

“Mind your head,” he warned, as they entered, and waited patiently for the teasing comments that were sure to come as soon as he saw the tiny cupboard Martin called home.  

 

Douglas paused right in the middle of the room, where he could stand comfortably, and looked around, studying the meagre furniture and wall decorations with interest, making Martin feel naked and exposed. He ignored it, and went to the small dresser to fetch a blanket and the one baggy t-shirt he knew Douglas could sleep in.

 

“Cozy,” said the older man, with no apparent sarcasm. Martin still eyed him defensively.

 

“Yes, well… I do what I can.” He handed the blanket and T-shirt. “The bathroom is the first door to your left when you climb down.”

 

Douglas just stood there, staring at the floor, or his shoes, or at nothing; his eyes did look a bit unfocused. Martin didn’t know what to do. Were they supposed to talk about it? God, he hoped not. Should he make tea? It was a little late for tea, wasn’t it?

 

“Aren’t you going to ask?”

 

It took Martin a few moments to realise Douglas had spoken, a few more to hear what he’d said, and his eyes opened wide with something akin to fear when he did.

 

“No!” Again with the squeaking. “No, of course not. Unless you want me to… Do you want me to?” Not that he’d made an incredible effort to hide his apprehension, but he still winced at the way it sounded, as he saw Douglas’ mask slip back on.

 

“Not in a million years,” he replied, and he sounded so composed, so… Douglas.

 

Softer now, less frantic, Martin tried again, placing an awkward hand on the other man’s shoulder.

 

“Do you need me to?”

 

Douglas let out a long, heavy sigh, and good God, his eyes were turning red and watery.

 

“Probably.”

 

Martin took a deep breath and squeezed the man’s shoulder.

 

“Then I’m asking.”

 

Douglas padded carefully to the couch and collapsed there, as if the energy had been drained out of him. Martin didn’t hesitate this time; he sat next to him, close enough to provide comfort, without invading his space or seeming pushy, and waited.

 

“I… stopped drinking when Elsie was born,” he said almost in a whisper, with a fond smile on his lips. “No 12 steps for me, that’s not my style. I just saw her face and I knew…” his breath caught. “I just stopped. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Martin nodded, encouraging him to continue, but said nothing. “I don’t see her as often as I would like. I’m barely her father, really; more like a cool uncle that drops by every so often but… Jesus, Martin, I love that little girl more than I love my own life!”

 

“Douglas… Is she… I mean…” He prayed that Elsie was alright, otherwise he feared nothing would bring Douglas back from this.

 

Douglas laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

 

“She’s fine, better than fine. Her mother is getting married to some business man from Australia. Loads of money, treats them both like princesses. He’s taking them both with him.” The last bit was said in a strangled attempt to keep his voice steady, as his eyes lost the battle against the tears that started pouring down, which he swiftly covered with both hands as he crumpled forward.

 

“Oh, Douglas,” Martin whispered, and draped an arm around the sagging shoulders, drawing the man close. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s fine,” the other man croaked out, but didn’t move away. “It really is fine. I’ll still see her. We fly to Australia often enough, don’t we? And… and this way she can get a proper role model, you know? Not an alcoholic with three failed marriages and a plummeting career.”

 

“Douglas,”

 

“No, really,” Now he did pull away, standing up a bit too quickly, staggering and marginally avoiding bumping his head on the ceiling. He dropped the blanket on the couch and hesitated a moment before turning towards the door.  “It’s ok. It’ll be fine in the morning. I’ll be fine.”

 

In a bout of the same panicky impulsivity he’d so often been mocked for, Martin rushed up and blocked the other man’s way, before wrapping both arms around him in a stiff and awkward hug. Douglas stayed still as a statue for the longest time. It was mortifying. Martin refused to let go both in sympathy and the paralyzing fear of the teasing he’d face once he let go.

 

But then Douglas seemed to melt against him, draping both arms around Martin’s waist, resting his head on the shorter man’s shoulder. He began sobbing brokenly; not wailing, just quiet sobs wracking his body. Martin did his best to direct them both back to the couch, with several pounds and inches at a disadvantage. They settled down, Douglas nearly on top of Martin as he cried, while he rubbed steady, slow circles on the older man’s back.

 

The sobs eventually died down, but neither made an attempt to move. Martin thought Douglas had finally succumbed to exhaustion and, not having the heart to wake him to escape, he wriggled a bit to accommodate them more comfortably and release the blanket from under his back. Douglas surprised him by taking it from him, and covering them both. Oh, well…

 

“Since we shall never speak of this again,” he mumbled against Martin’s shoulder. “I’ll say this now. Thank you, Martin, for being here.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” He really needed to get his voice checked, that pitch was unnaturally high. “It was lucky you chose a pub so close to mine, though, wasn’t it?”

 

Douglas stiffened suspiciously for a second or two.

 

“Good night, Martin.”


End file.
